Chapter 37 #2
The tangled sheets of his behemoth bed are that same iceberg blue. The intricate raindrop details of the breathtaking art that hangs above it, similarly colored. Even the taper candles in their holders that shimmer on a black-brick mantle above the roaring fireplace…
My shoes make no sound on the plush carpet as I wander across the room.
I wish I was barefoot. I want to feel each decadent thread between my toes.
My eyes gobble up the varied film stills and antique posters that adorn the walls.
Kubrick and Campion. Lumet and Miyazaki.
Bookcases filled with original copies of plays and memoirs, love stories and gothic horror stacked between leafy green plants that are clearly watered with care.
To my right, where the cloudlike carpet ends and the blond wood floor begins, is an oversized matte-black tub, still curling clove-scented steam into the air.
A glassy shower too, and a long stone counter with two sinks that denotes the wall-less bathing area, like you’d find at a fancy hotel in a far-flung tropical land.
But the real slice of Deacon’s soul is outside.
The entire left wall is just…open to the air.
No glass, no blinds—the floor sprawls out into the fresh morning, where a massive balcony wraps around the room.
A dark couch and some chairs slouch around a low stone coffee table, fit for wine-soaked evenings with friends beneath dangling glass lanterns. And the view—
I’d thought my view of the city down the hall was extraordinary. Deacon looks out over both the soaring skyscrapers and historic townhomes of Astera as well as a swath of glittering crystalline ocean. That sight in the dead of night, that sight in a lush, heady storm…
“Wow,” is all I can manage.
I hear him close the bedroom door quietly, sealing us inside. Something tight in my chest releases.
“Do you like it?” The husk of his voice sends shivers through me.
“It’s…” But all that comes to mind is It’s so you.
“What are you holding?” His voice is deeper, clearer than it was a minute ago.
When I step back inside and pry my eyes from the tufts of pillows and lush, textured throws scattered across his rumpled bed, he’s standing close enough for me to see the ridge of his necklace below his shirt. My mouth waters.
“I stole it for you.” I sound like a lovesick teenager from the wrong side of the tracks. But I hand over the spool to him anyway. This is closure, I think.
Deacon raises a brow and accepts my offering, roving his eyes across the vintage metal and antique film. When he spies the title, something in his face shifts. “La Douleur Exquise.”
“It was in the archives. Couldn’t pass it up.”
“You’d make a good cat burglar,” he muses. But that look in his eyes—hungry, intrigued, a little desperate. “There was already a sneaky feline thing about you, but now…” He shakes his head like I’ve been holding out on him. “I’ll add it to my collection.”
“Cool.” I rock back on my heels. There are a million things left unsaid, but I can think of none of them. He stares at me, subdued, watchful. Urges war along my skin. To leave. To crawl into his bed. To hold him. To punch him in the face.
Silence stretches on. Why is this so awkward?
“I have something for you too,” Deacon says, as if he’s just remembered.
“You do?”
But he’s already strolling over to one of his bookshelves and opening a glossy wooden case. When he pulls out something silver and shining, tears burn in my eyes.
He’s holding my locket.
“Did some cat burgling myself. Your apartment is concerningly easy to break into. If you ever make it back there, you might want to invest in a—”
His voice stalls when I pitch myself up and wrap my arms around his neck.
His chest is warm and hard, his skin hot against my cheek. He smells so clean, so beautifully comforting, I allow my wet eyes to flutter closed.
Slowly, and in utter silence, his arms come to encircle my waist. Those long fingers linger on the hem of my sweater, as if they itch to slip underneath.
And then, like a wild horse warily accepting sugar cubes, his head dips until his temple comes to rest near my own.
He pulls me even closer. The only sound is the crackle of his fireplace and the soft singing of the wind outside.
His heart beats on top of mine. We breathe in tandem. We have never hugged before.
It’s not that going back to my apartment—breaking in to my apartment—risked some great death or dismemberment.
Nor that my place is so big that an afternoon searching for the missing locket would have taken him more than a handful of hours—knowing Deacon, he probably called in a favor from a warlock or a gnome.
But he did this for…me. For my broken heart over losing the last piece of my dad, though I’d told him so little about it.
I release him and clear my throat. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“Take care of yourself, okay?” His voice is soft as he hands me the locket.
Something inside me is splintering apart. I feel like I’m going to cry. “I will. And I won’t forget about Odette. If I dream of anything, I’ll let you know.”
He nods thoughtfully but doesn’t say more.
I stare up at him, unable to stop the burning in my eyes. I think I want him to kiss me.
“Hey.” Concern flares in his eyes. “We’re friends.” He says it like it’s important that I hear him. We’re friends. This doesn’t have to be goodbye.
“I know,” I say, wiping a tear. “Sucks, huh?”
His half grin could knock me over like a gust of gorgeous wind. “A nightmare.”